


The Creator and The Master

by Island_of_Reil



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Beating, Betrayal, Gen, Implied/Referenced Execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a pawn becomes queen, things may not end well for the one who put her in play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Creator and The Master

**Author's Note:**

> “You are my creator, but I am your master; obey!“  
> —Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_
> 
> *
> 
> With thanks to [Smillaraaq](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smillaraaq) for beta'ing this.

The door of Levi’s cell swings open with the squeal of iron oiled far too infrequently. Standing in the entrance are two male palace guards with their pistols trained on him. He doesn’t recognize either man. He does, however, know the female knight who stands between them, her sword at her belt and a pair of manacles dangling from her fingers.

Ymir’s smile is a slow, poisonous thing. “Time for your audience with the Queen, _Captain,_ ” she says with a hateful joy.

Levi returns her nothing in his expression, merely stands and turns around, placing his hands behind his back. He wonders if he could kill Ymir before the guards kill him. Not only would he be ridding the world of her, but he’d rather be shot than hanged. After less than a second he discards the idea. The palace guards are all excellent shots, far better than the MPs. They’d probably only shoot to wound him, anyway.

Ymir grabs first his left wrist, then the right, clapping a manacle onto each, then chains the bonds together tightly. With a hard hand on his shoulder she spins him around and propels him forward, then seizes him by the upper arm. “Dieter and Lars will be behind us all the way to the throne room,” she hisses. “I know I should warn you not to try anything, but, really, I’d love it if you gave Historia another excuse not to give you a fast death.”

“Don’t you mean ‘Her Majesty’?” Levi says, deceptively casual, and takes a punch to the side of his head for it. As his vision clears he wishes this self-serving piece of shit would challenge him to a fair fight, the same weapons, no shifting on her part. In human form she’s an excellent fighter, but he could take her down in the first minute.

Of course, it would never be permitted. The Queen’s indulgences of her pet abomination go only so far.

Ymir is taller than he is and she doesn’t bother to slow her stride for him, but even as he is forced to keep up with her he remains impassive on the short journey. Here and there on the stairway up from the dungeon or in the long corridor to the throne room they pass a courtier, an advisor, a servant. Reactions range from wide-eyed gawping to narrow-eyed attentive interest to a lack of expression matching his own. He doesn’t acknowledge any of them, nor does Ymir, nor does either of the guards.

At last they reach the massive carved doors, twice the height of a tall man and eight centimeters thick. A second pair of guards, these armed with swords, stands before them; silent and cold-eyed, they swing the doors open in unison without a hint of physical strain. Ymir shoves Levi through, and Dieter and Lars follow them in. The swordbearers pull the doors closed behind them with a thud that resounds off the marble and tile of the great chamber.

Only one other person is there, and she is seated.

The throne is on a high dais, making her tower over even the tallest of her subjects, but she hasn’t grown a centimeter since Levi has last seen her close up, and her face is still that of a twelve-year-old. Though her white gown is tailored to her small frame, as is the purple surcoat over it, they and the golden circlet on her head put him in mind of a small child playing dress-up.

Yet nothing remains of the cringing, mewling brat he, Erwin, and Hange put on this same throne two years before. The saucer eyes, once always either vacant or frightened, are hooded; her mouth is a flat, expressionless line. She’s learned to claim the space around her by keeping her chin raised, her shoulders back, her spine straight, her arms out to her sides — like he himself learned, so long ago.

Ymir gives Levi’s shoulder a downward wrench. “On your knees,” she grates. He plummets to the floor but keeps his head up, glaring at Historia. Ymir cuffs him across the cheek. “ _Bow your head,_ damn you.”

“Ymir,” Historia says, her volume modulated and her tone flat. She still sounds like a twelve-year-old, too. Albeit an exceedingly precocious twelve-year-old.

“But—” Ymir begins.

“Let it be,” Historia says with the same deceptive neutrality, just a shade more firm this time. Levi can feel the rage and loathing radiating off Ymir like sun off a black roof, but she says nothing else and takes a step backward.

The silence of the ensuing moment weighs heavily and crackles, as if lightning were about to strike the floor between where Levi kneels and where Historia sits. She regards him coolly; he returns the same gaze.

Finally she says, “I have been informed of the plot to kill Ymir. Your fellow conspirators are also in custody.”

_No shit. Why else would I be here in chains?_ he thinks. “I won’t deny it, _Majesty._ ” He puts contemptuous weight on the last word. “Her allegiance to humanity is questionable in the extreme. Are you putting your libido over the survival of humanity?” Historia’s eyes shift upward and beyond him, and her hand rises even before he’s finished speaking: Ymir must have hauled her arm back to hit him again.

Historia returns her attention to Levi and replies, “Ymir’s allegiance to humanity is not in question for me.” She does not raise her voice nor alter its pitch; she speaks as if she predicts that the sun will rise tomorrow, and she expects as little argument against it.

“And your judgment is that sound, is it? What reason was there to have her, rather than an ordinary palace guard, come to manacle me? You let your favorite knight assume a menial duty because it would gratify her emotions, and that pleases you.”

“It’s no menial duty, you piece of filth,” Ymir snarls. “To bring a traitor before my Queen is an _honor._ ”

He ignores Ymir entirely. “Then why are there no witnesses to this ceremony other than a pair of lowly guards, Majesty? Shouldn’t you have me decried in front of every noble and every Wall priest, the heads of the Garrison Legion and the MP, and most of the Survey Corps, too? Or are you afraid of what I might say?”

“I see no need to alarm the public with news of every cabal that plots against me and mine,” Historia says. But he catches the slight, ever so slight, flicker of her eyes. She’s good, he’ll give her that; she’s stepped into her role with a vengeance he couldn’t have imagined when first he ordered her to. She’s not _that_ good.

“‘Me and mine,’” he repeats. Not with outright mimicry, at least not yet, but still he can sense Ymir tensing behind him. “That’s adorable, it really is. Look, I don’t give a fuck how you get off, personally. But you’re royalty. You’re going to be expected to produce at least one heir, and I don’t think this one here’s shifting powers include the ability to grow a dick.”

He knows what’s coming from Historia’s utter lack of reaction and the shift in the air behind him. Ymir’s fist connects with his temple. The whiteness before his eyes lasts longer, and so do the sizzling stars it shrinks into. 

When he can see and speak again, he decides that if he’s in for a penny he’s in for a pound. He adds with faux-thoughtfulness, “Then again, maybe it’s better than if you’d gotten hot for Reiner Braun. Only thing worse than no heirs at all would be a baby aberrant in the palace nursery. Especially if it’d ripped you apart on its way out.”

This time he gets Ymir’s boot hard in the ribs. There’s an audible crack as he feels bone give. He doubles over, coughing and gasping, eyes watering, manacled wrists straining behind him. The others wait. 

Eventually he rights himself again, ignoring the sensation of having been impaled through the chest on a heated bayonet. He sees that Historia’s expression hasn’t changed, but the knuckles of her heavily beringed fingers are white.

“Do you have anything left to state or ask?” she inquires politely. The implication is clear: _anything of substance, rather than mere vituperation._

“Who... betrayed me?” he tries to snarl, but the words come out in a hoarse gasp. He tastes blood in his mouth.

“Survey Corps Cadet Anton Hindemuth,” says a new voice, a light tenor. “One of the most promising spies I’ve ever had the pleasure of training and directing.”

The door at the very rear of the room, half-concealed by the throne, must have opened while Levi was reeling from Ymir’s kick. Standing in its threshold is a young man in the austere black robe of a royal advisor.

Levi’s lips draw back into the grin of a death’s head. Thickly, his breath hard to catch now, he says, “Never... suspected the... Hindemuth kid. But… you at... the bottom of... it? No surprise.”

Unlike Historia Reis, Armin Arlert does in fact look different than he did two years ago: a little taller, a little broader, face a little more angular, hair a little shorter. His voice is a little deeper, too. Also unlike Historia, Armin has not changed at all in his true measure, other than that it’s become more obvious.

He comes to stand by the side of the throne. “Did you expect me to just let you and the others murder the woman who protected our future Queen? As well as helped save Eren Jaeger?” Armin’s blue eyes are wide with skillfully feigned hurt, and his tone is one of well-practiced righteousness.

“You.. mean the ... woman who... abducted our... future Queen and... nearly got her... killed?”

Armin’s fair brows draw together. “Her Majesty was in less danger with the Colossal and Armored Titans than she was in general battle with ordinary titans,” he says sharply.

“Are you _shitting_ me?” Barking the words out in one breath over the knot of agony in his chest makes Levi’s head go light.

“They valued her life,” Armin says.

“Only as… leverage over... Ymir. Oh...” Levi cranes his neck upward to grin at Ymir, despite the effort and the pain it costs him. “...and because... I’ve heard... Reiner Braun... wanted to make... little... abominations with—”

Ymir moves fast. The ring of steel sliding from a scabbard hasn’t even faded before her sword is at his throat and her free hand is knotted in his hair.

“Your Majesty,” she snarls. “Let me kill him. Just give me the order. Plea—”

_“Let go of him **now,** Ymir,”_ Historia says without raising her voice.

The only sounds in the room for the next ten seconds are Ymir’s and Levi’s breaths, hers rasping, his rattling. Finally she releases his hair and shoves him forward. His forehead strikes the parquet.

For long minutes he doesn’t move; his lungs are on fire, and his mind is going white at its edges. At one point he hears the grate of steel on bronze as Ymir shoves the sword back into its scabbard.

He straightens up a final time, swaying a little on his knees. Historia’s fingers are now entirely white under the rings, but her face blazes crimson and her eyes blaze cobalt. Armin stands in the background, wearing an expression of disapproving concern as cleverly crafted as any ring on Historia’s hands.

Her voice is like a whip. “Take him into the courtyard.”

“Gladly.” Ymir grabs Levi by the shoulder again. “Long drop, Majesty, or short drop?”

The Queen’s hard gaze falls once more upon Levi. He remembers, two years ago, hoisting her up by her throat, then throwing her to the floor, where she clutched at the marks of his fingers and wheezed. He wonders if she’s remembering that, too. Wonders if she’ll join them in the courtyard to watch him twist at the end of the rope as the world dwindles to a black spot before his eyes, then winks out completely.

It’s subtle, but there’s a new note in her voice and a sudden slackening of the tension around her eyes and mouth. It makes him think she looks, more than anything else, tired.

“Not the gallows. The block.” She raises her voice for the next two words only. “ _One blow,_ Ymir. You’ve had your fun. If the axe is dull, have one of the guards fetch another. Burn the remains afterward. Armin, follow them; you’re to bear witness.”

“Majesty,” Armin says deferentially.

Levi is ashamed of the relief that washes through him. He can feel Ymir seething behind him, thwarted. He’s sure that she would have not only given him the short drop but tossed his carcass to the palace wolfhounds. Maybe cut him down half-alive first.

But all she utters is a tight, grudging “Majesty” before she hauls him to his feet. He can’t keep the blood from draining out of his face; other than that, he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of any sign that he’s in pain.

“How about a show of gratitude to your sovereign?” Ymir snaps. “You don’t deserve the quick end you’re meeting. She’s always been a much better person than I am.” The pitch of her voice drops like a stone, and for a hazy second he thinks she might actually shift into titan form, right here in this room. “No thanks to you, she still is.”

Levi meets Historia’s eyes a final time; once again they’re hooded. He gets out the words “Your Majesty... is merciful,” somehow managing to lard them with irony.

She waits a long moment before she inclines her head and favors him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her sense of irony is as keen as his own.

“Now,” she says curtly. As she watches, Ymir marches Levi not to the great double doors but to the ordinary-sized one from which Armin emerged. Armin follows them back through it, and Dieter and Lars follow in their wake, closing the door behind them.


End file.
